Self-judged, self-doomed, was he— By his lost Ideals slain; They lifted him first, then smote him dead- Pure as snow, true as steel, was he— But the Vision of God struck him blind, And his Soul could no Purity find Till Life's sword in its scabbard was sheathed. Tinlie Rhymes. CAMPIE PHIL. RIENDSHIP, of the real and intimate kind, FRI not a mere nodding acquaintanceship, with Philip Saunders, befell me, in somewhat strange and even questionable surroundings, on the evening of what was known as The Lockerbie Lamb Fair. I had just left the Gig of a neighbouring Farmer, who had given me a lift" for a few miles on the Homeward journey, and was about to leave the main road and cut direct through the fields for Tinlie Tower, when, at a turn on the highway, I came upon two men contending earnestly over what appeared to be a bundle of dirty rags heaped up on the grassy Embankment. On nearer inspection, it proved to be a miserable, blotched, dissolute, and drunk Creature, the mere dregs and refuse of what once had been a Woman, so utterly de-civilised, so be-devilled, so beastified, even to outward seeming, that you instinctively shuddered and turned away. 'Laird, richt gled am I tae see ye come on the scene!" fussily began the lesser man of the two, whom I had heard the Villagers call to his face Puddle-Michty, and whom indeed at that time I knew not by any other name,-"Here hae I been arguin' wi' Campie Phil, for half an 'oor an' mair, tae let that dirty heap o' rags an' drink an' vice just sleep hersel' sober again; but Phil mainteens that gif we be Christ's Men, we canna pass by on the tither side, an' leave her tae her fate; we maun tak' her tae some place o' shelter, an' see her cared for! It's as muckle as his gude Name's worth, an' him a Candidat' for the Meenistry. Indeed, it may be eneuch tae smirk the reputation o' the hale three o' us, tae be seen in siccan company ava!" The miserable bundle of rags and dirt and drink had just sense enough left to know that she herself was the bone of contention, and that one of the men was looking at her with pity, the other with loathing. But her besotted soul had not wakened to the idea that apparent kindliness could have any other object than lustful desire. So, raising herself on her hunkers, and attempting in vain to rise to her feet, she stretched out her arms with leery looks, and, muttering filthy words of endearment, made an effort to embrace Campie Phil, but fell instead helplessly at his feet, face-downwards on the grass. Puddle-Michty started back and looked at me, as much as to say, "See there for yourself! Is this company for us?" But Phil, without a further word of argument, and without pretence at apology, bent down over her, raised her fallen form gently, as if it had been his dearest Sister, steadied her with his strong arms, and then, fixing a pair of eyes on me so pitiful and piercing that their gaze startled me, he said— "God that made this Woman is looking on! He could not be pleased, if we left her here to the deadly influences of the Night. Jesus Christ that died for this Woman is looking on! He could not be pleased, if we left her here in her helplessness to the assaults of the brutes and devils that will yet pass this way to-night. I shall take this Woman for shelter to Campie Linns. The whole World may misunderstand me; but I can trust my own Mother! She will know that it is for Christ's sake, and not for Demon uses, that I have succoured this Woman in her misery." So saying, Campie Phil began to move her in the direction of his Home. I, let me confess frankly, out of no genuine interest in this poor Unfortunate, but in sheer admiration for Phil himself, or rather under the fascination of his inspiring look, instinctively laid firm hold on her other arm, and we started off, with her reeling form swinging betwixt us. At which spectacle, the face of Puddle-Michty became half paralytic with surprise, his mouth fell open, and he began steering himself towards Castlebraes, without even a word of Good Night. But we heard him muttering, as he disappeared, while rubbing his hands together with more than his wonted washerwoman like energy Sentimental Fules, the pair o' them! They'll get their reward. A fine story, this, for thae Villagers wi' their waggin' tongues! Graun' theme for maleecious jibes, nae doot. Eneuch tae ruin that young Meenistur, an' prevent 'im frae ever gettin' a Kirk-fulish Laddie, fulish Laddie!" The journey across two or three fields to Campie N |